


The First and Last Trilogy Appendix

by Phyona



Series: The First and Last Trilogy [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Additional/Alternative Scenes, Barebacking, Love Confessions, M/M, Witty Banter, tripping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-07 07:59:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phyona/pseuds/Phyona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Additional or missing scenes from <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/345495/chapters/560733">The Last Drop</a>, <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/363459/chapters/590259">The Temper Between</a>, and <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/474238/chapters/822422">The First Trip</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Time for Everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...um...short version? 
> 
> Not Dead.

"I can't believe I'm actually doing this," John groaned to himself, half-covering his face with his hands. Sherlock glanced up from where he was sucking a kiss to John's hip.

"You're the one who insisted on it," Sherlock reminded him.

"Not my fault." He squirmed a little on the sheets, feeling restless, giddy, over-stimulated.

"Oh, really? Then am I to assume you're blaming me?" Sherlock pressed another kiss just below his belly button.

"You purposefully made it look good to manipulate me."

"Sounds like something I would do."

"Yeah."

"But, as usual, your deduction is incorrect."

John gasped when Sherlock licked the crease between leg and pelvis, his back arching. He knew Sherlock was winding him up, coiling his nerve center to make release all the fiercer. Despite how many times Sherlock had done it, how many times he'd driven him mad with an abundance of sensations, the effect never seemed to dull. And now that he'd agreed to try something new and admittedly scary, it had been amplified tenfold.

"How is it?" John asked, his voice breathy and strained.

"My responses were entirely genuine, so, really, it's your fault for making it feel as pleasant as it does, thus fanning your own desire to experience my position. Did I not tell you that you'd eventually be receptive to experimentation?" Punctuating his point, Sherlock's hand slid between John's legs in a soft, yet extremely purposeful stroke.

"Oh,  _God_ ," John whined. He clenched his fists in the sheets at his sides.

"'Sherlock' will do just fine."

"You did  _not_  just pull that line…"

"Hand me the lubrication so I can prepare you properly," Sherlock ordered, ignoring him.

John huffed, but did as he was told, fumbling with the drawer of their night table and extracting the desired object. He tossed the plastic bottle at Sherlock's face. It bounced off his forehead and landed on John's stomach with a plunk.

"That wasn't very nice," Sherlock observed flatly, though he snatched up the bottle and slicked up a few long fingers.

"I'm not very nice."

"Yes you are."

"Am not. I've been with you far too long to not become a surly bastard."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he picked up John's leg and draped it over his shoulder. He shifted closer and lined up his wet fingers, sharp eyes meeting John's with a question.

John swallowed hard.

"Go on then," he rasped, head jerking in a quick nod.

Though it wouldn't be perceivable to anyone but John, the soul behind Sherlock's gaze softened, and with it so did the apprehension setting John's teeth on edge.

With a quick kiss to the thigh draped over his shoulder, Sherlock delicately breached John with the tip of his finger. All the air rushed out of John's lungs in an instant, and heat bloomed on his cheeks and ears.

"Okay?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, just…strange."

"It is at first. Take a deep breath, it will help."

John did, and on the exhale Sherlock's finger slid in to the hilt.

"Fuck," John cursed, reaching out to grab the wrist of Sherlock's unoccupied hand.

"That's the idea."

"Stop that!"

"Stop what?"

"Stop using sex clichés."

"I have no idea what you're referring to."

"Yes you—" John's words broke off when Sherlock's finger curled inside of him, hitting a spot that sent a jolt through the root of him. " _Fuck me_."

"I plan on it."

"Knock it off!"

"What? This?" Sherlock asked, crooking his finger again with devilish precision.

After a moment of letting the stars at the edges of his vision recede and returning his spine to the mattress, John glared down at his smirking flatmate.

"You know perfectly well what."

Sherlock's eyes crinkled with a smile, and he began thrusting his finger, from deep to shallow and back again. John choked on a moan.

"I certainly don't. Why? Are you displeased with my sexual style?"

"Obviously not," John huffed, gesturing, a bit manically, to the fully erect penis currently bobbing near Sherlock's face. "But you're clearly trying to mess with me. I'm not sure how yet, but I can bloody tell."

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed contemplatively, brushing over John's prostate and drawing a whine from him as he stared off, thoughtfully, to the side. "I think you're ready for two fingers now."

John barely had time to process his words before a second finger carefully joined the first. For the first time he felt a pull and a burn, but it was not entirely unpleasant. In fact, the bit of pain seemed to only sharpen the pleasure, making him feel and sense more than he ever had from that part of his body. His cock ached from where it throbbed against his thigh, thick and neglected.

"You're very tight," Sherlock registered. When John met his eyes he found them dilated and wide, the first sign that Sherlock was affected by their interaction. Faint patches of pink flared high on his cheeks.

"Apologies," John said insincerely.

"No it's…fine."

"Fine?"

"Good."

"How good?"

"Very good," Sherlock said, and winked.

"Did you—did you just  _wink_  at me?" John gasped, flabbergasted and trying to ignore what Sherlock's ever-moving fingers were doing to him.

"I've winked at you before."

"But not in bed. Not like some bloody porn star."

"It's been my experience that winking fosters a positive impression."

"I think that ship has sailed,"

"Let's try another, shall we?" Sherlock stated, pushing three fingers into him and bending them against his sweet spot with hardly any warning at all.

John moaned with the bliss and sting of the invasion, squeezing Sherlock's wrist so tight in his hand that he felt the bones grind together. It was like nothing he'd experienced before. It ached and filled him and made him feel vulnerable in a way that he would never allow in the presence of anyone but Sherlock.

"Is that…does it always feel like this?" John panted.

"Only if you do it correctly."

"Did uh…and I…do I 'do it correctly?'"

"Obviously."

John snorted.

"Ah, there it is. That's more the kind of foreplay talk I expect from you," John muttered.

"That wasn't 'foreplay talk.' I was merely responding to an idiotic question with the only suitable answer."

"Exactly. You were a being a dick."

Sherlock glared at him.

"You're right; you aren't nice."

"Hey, at least I'm right."

"You're also a dick," Sherlock added.

"I get dick  _and_  the rare honour of being right over the great Sherlock Holmes? It must be Christmas...or the apocalypse."

"Well, since you have such a wealth of dicks I can't see why you'd be needing mine," Sherlock snapped, extracting his fingers from inside John and turning away as though he intended to leave the bed.

"Hold it right there," John said, using his grip on Sherlock's wrist to yank the man on top of him and wrap his legs around his waist, locking him in place. "Can never have too many dicks, you know." He offered a small, apologetic smile, and kissed the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

"Now who's implementing sexual clichés."

"Cliché? Can't say I've ever heard that one before."

"Then you're watching the wrong porn."

Sherlock adjusted his hips, slotting himself comfortably between John's legs like he belonged there.

"Don't really go in for the stuff anymore, ta."

"Nor should you need to."

"True, that's true. Wait…have  _you_  been watching porn?"

"I thought I could garner some techniques," Sherlock confessed, a bit sheepishly.

"So  _that's_  where the stupid lines are coming from?"

"They won't be the only thing that's coming."

"Oh sweet Jesus ," John groaned, slapping his palm to his forehead.

"Not working for you?"

"'Fraid not, Sherlock."

"Ah."

"I recommend you just stick to the actual sex part of having sex. That was working for me just fine."

Sherlock paused, eyes flickering between John's.

"You're sure." It didn't sound like a question.

"Yes."

"It might hurt a little."

"I'm aware."

"And you might not like it."

"Okay."

"Though I will, of course, endeavor to make it satisfactory."

"Now you're really pulling out the dirty talk."

Sherlock pushed up onto his elbow, reaching for the bottle of lube once more and generously coating his half-hard erection with its contents. As he stroked himself to fullness, his eyes locked with John, who blushed and swallowed hard. With their breaths mingling between them and the air static with anticipation, it didn't take very long before Sherlock was ready for him, swollen and glistening with slick.

"Wrap your legs higher on my waist," Sherlock directed, voice deep. Though it was incredibly slight, John didn't miss the way he trembled as he lined himself up.

"Relax and bear down on me. Tell me if it hurts." Sherlock's tone, most unusually, held a poorly faked confidence, and John wondered how it became that he felt more composed in this situation than the typically smug detective. Beneath his hands Sherlock's back muscles were tight and drawn as a bow, his skin clammy.

"I will. But you won't hurt me."

"I might."

"No, you won't," John countered, throwing all his confidence into the words since Sherlock seemed unable to find his own.

"I—alright."

"Come on then."

With a short nod, Sherlock pushed forward ever so slowly, and John found himself doing the last thing he would have imagined a few years prior.

Sherlock was panting into his mouth, his pupils blown black, as John fought to breathe and relax his muscles.

"S-slow," he slurred, though Sherlock was already moving so gradually they might be geriatric by the time he finally bottomed out.

"I know," Sherlock gritted out.

He nuzzled the side of John's face, and John noted that their height difference was far more conducive to kissing in their current position than their usual preference. He took advantage of it by pressing his lips to the detective's. Though it started chaste, the kiss rapidly became wet and sloppy, intensifying the deeper Sherlock buried himself in John's body.

They moaned in unison when Sherlock was fully sheathed, their forms pressed so closely together it was hard to discern the barrier between them. John gripped Sherlock tight with both his legs and arms, blinking as he tried to parse the foreign sensations of being touched in a way he never had before.

It was overwhelming, but not unmanageable. It hurt, but also felt indescribably good, like Sherlock had a direct, raw link to his pleasure center. It was strange, but John liked strange. You'd only have to look at his partner to know that.

"M-move, will you?" he growled at Sherlock, and gave him a quick slap on his arse. The noise of it more than anything seemed to shock Sherlock into action, who had up until that point looked rather dazed.

With a slow, dragging thrust Sherlock moved inside him.

The tempo he set was languorous at first, making them both feel every point of contact, every tremble. It gave John time to accommodate him. But, soon, their pace quickened, drawing whimpers and gasps until they were lost in the feeling of one another.

A sweat broke out over their bodies not unlike the one that once quelled their fevers, bringing with it the memory of the first time they'd fooled around, and hitting John with a potent wave of fondness for his friend.

Weaving his fingers into Sherlock's inky hair, John guided them into a desperate kiss. Over the last few weeks John had gone a long way to teaching Sherlock how to kiss with everything that he was; to kiss like they loved each other, which, if John was being honest with himself, they did. Each caress of tongue, each mix of breath and nip of teeth, stoked their longing for each other, until Sherlock was pounding into him. John met his thrusts, undulating his hips and guiding Sherlock to his sweet spot.

With Sherlock pulled so close, his stomach rubbed against the bottom of John's cock, not enough to bring him over the precipice, but holding him torturously near the edge. Still, John didn't mind. While Sherlock had been keying him up for ages and he desperately wanted to come, he also didn't want the event to be over yet. He'd been contemplating it for what felt like ages, and the reality definitely fell on the positive end of his expectations.

In fact, the longer it went on, the more he grew accustomed to the stretch and the pressure, the better it felt.

He dragged his mouth from Sherlock's, earning a whine of protest from the detective. Without John's lips to keep his occupied, Sherlock's went to his neck. He bit and teased at John's pulse point, continuing to drive himself deep into John's entrance.

"You like this," he rumbled against John's skin.

"Yes." His reply was barely more than a well-formed breath.

"More than you thought you would."

"Yes."

"More than I thought you would."

"Doubt it."

Sherlock pulled back and looked him the eye. He was grinning.

"You know me so well."

"I know you're a cocky—  _fuck_  - bastard who's thought much more about my arse than he's like to admit."

"Oh, I'd happily admit it," Sherlock countered, his brow furrowed. His thrusts grew slow and languid. "I'm just not sure you'd find the confession arousing or disturbing."

"Darling, with you the two go hand in hand," John teased, grinding back on him in a way that sent a shock of tingling up his spine.

"I'm not sure if that reflects more poorly on you or me."

"Neither am I."

Suddenly Sherlock paused, his hips stopping flush against John's arse.

" _Darling?_ " Sherlock said the word as though it didn't fit in his mouth.

"Am I not allowed to give you pet names?"

"Certainly not." Sherlock looked disgusted.

"No. Not really our style, is it."

"I should hope not,  _dear_."

"Ick, no, you're right. No pet names. Best get back to the sex now."

"If you insist."

To show he meant business, or perhaps to short out John's brain so he never remembered a pet name (or any name) again, Sherlock reached between them and took John's cock in a tight grip.

"Would you like to come now?" he asked, the very picture of courtesy.

"If you'd like to make me…"

"That is generally the goal of having sex, John."

"Oh, is it? Guess I'd forgotten, what with lying here on my back, bored to shit because someone is too busy whinging about pet names to—"

With a growl Sherlock slammed his hips into John. A sharp burst of pleasure shot through his core, and he would have come on the spot if it wasn't for Sherlock's grip holding him back.

Timing the jerking of his wrist with his hips, Sherlock worked John with all the skill, all the focus he seemed to possess. Immediately John's arousal ratcheted up, and he found himself tumbling towards release so fast that the edges of vision began to blur.

"Oh, fuck yeah," he gasped. "I'm gonna'…God, I'm such an idiot."

"Yes," Sherlock breathed, not faltering in the slightest. "But why?"

"Should have…done this…ages ago."

"John—"

"Yeah, yeah what is it?" John was rapidly reaching his climax. It was building on itself more potently than he had ever experienced. It filled his whole abdomen, his whole body, right down to his toes. He felt delirious with it.

"I've never done it like this before either."

"What?" John barked, his eyes snapping open.

"Perhaps I…should have mentioned—"

"You've never been the one to—"

"Top. No."

"How?" John asked, doing his best to keep his orgasm at bay. Sherlock was still thrusting shallowly, still working him with his hand. Curiosity did help hold it back momentarily but he knew if he Sherlock kept touching him as he was he wouldn't last for long.

"I haven't exactly had a legion of sexual partners, John."

"Oh," John replied, for lack of anything better to say, what with shock and an impending orgasm clouding his mind.

"Problem?"

"No…in fact, I think that's the sexiest thing anyone's ever said to me."

"And you said my dirty talk was cliché."

"This is sex…everything is cliché."

"Then I don't suppose you'll mind if I kindly ask you to shut up and come for me?"

"Oh fuck," John moaned, bowing his back as Sherlock's wrist and hips sped to a blistering pace.

When his orgasm hit him, it hit hard. It pulsed out of him roughly, ribbons of white painting his chest and Sherlock's. He arched against the detective, keening and clenching down.

Sherlock was either pretty shocked by the sight or on the edge already because he came almost immediately, burying himself inside John as deep as he could go and biting down on his shoulder. They had often used a claiming kind of bite in the bedroom, though they made sure to keep it on the right side of painful, so John wasn't surprised at the sting. Quite the opposite, in fact.

John held Sherlock close as he spent himself, clutching his damp, trembling back and kissing his hair.

Once they had both settled, Sherlock withdrew his face from John's neck and met his eyes.

"Well?" he queried, as casual as you please, as though they hadn't just shared mind-shattering orgasms.

"Well what?"

"Did you…was it enjoyable?"

"What do you think?"

Sherlock's eyes scanned over him before he replied.

"I think you're a switch."

John removed his arms from Sherlock's back and crossed them over his chest indignantly, putting a barrier between them. He let his legs fall to the mattress.

"Do you, now."

"I do."

"And what about you? Did you find your first time on top to be 'satisfactory?'"

"I think you can deduce that without my assistance."

"You sure know how to flatter a guy," John sighed. 

"Agreed."

Gently, Sherlock pulled out him, making them both groan. He toppled to his back beside him. They stared up at the ceiling.

"I…feel a variety of things for you, John," Sherlock said after a moment. The words sounded as though he'd dragged them from himself by force.

"Romantic," John snorted, shaking his head.

"Oh, you know what I mean."

"Yeah." John rolled from the bed, crossing to the bathroom so he could clean himself up. "I know."

"John?"

"Yeah?" John paused, glancing back.

Sherlock smiled and winked.

John slammed the door behind him.

 [](http://rageofthenerd.tumblr.com/post/79969399424/dvancecinco-havetardiswilltimetravel#notes-container)

(click image to reblog on tumblr)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't tackle or headbutt me for how long it took to return to this story. If you do I'll just have to stage a bomb scare until you forgive me. And then laugh at you once we get too intimate. Shhhh, it makes sense and in no way makes us look like emotionally stunted fools.


	2. More Than Tequila

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I received quite a few requests for an additional scene where John and Sherlock say "I love your fine, glorious arse" for the first time. I always had trouble imagining how that shit would go down, so I tried to let the confessions of TSoT and the "Sherlock is a girl's name" code of HLV drive my fic. What I ended up with is...bizarre. Fricka frack here's some crack.

John had contemplated the moment when he'd finally tell Sherlock he loved him many times.

Though he'd wordlessly affirmed the sentiment practically every day since they'd met, there was still something daunting and unique about verbalizing the words "I love you." While he would never expect Sherlock to say them in return, he liked to think that when he did confess his truest feelings, vulnerable yet fearless, the detective would quietly accept them. And maybe even blush a little.

On accident he'd almost blurted them out countless times over the course of their romantic relationship. Once when Sherlock handed him a cup of tea without ulterior motive or goading, made perfectly to his liking. John had just managed to drown the confession in a gulp of scalding Earl Grey before it had broken free. And again when Sherlock was unconscious post-case, sprawled on the sofa with his head pillowed on John's lap. The unheard words had been carried on a breath, but they were still startling in the silence of their sitting room.

Another time, which was by far the most incriminating, was when Sherlock was moving deep inside him, panting against his mouth with his silver eyes penetrating and open. "I luh—ube—" John had croaked, barely morphing the word at the last second. The roll of Sherlock's hips had halted instantly.

"You need…more lube?" he'd asked, perplexed, talking to John as though he'd spoken in an alien language. More lube was hardly a bad thing, but it certainly wasn't what John had intended. He imagined he was one of the few people in history, if not the only person, to interchange one word with the other.

Still, regardless of all the scenarios John had imagined or almost experienced, he'd never fathomed what actually ended up happening.

They were on a decent case, interesting but nothing special, when a dwarf popped up from behind a wheelie bin and shot Sherlock with a blow dart. Literally.

It was one of the most surreal moments of John's life, which was really saying something when you considered his track record. It wasn't even a modern blow dart, but rather a tribal looking thing with a bamboo shaft and decorative feathers. John was so dumbfounded that he stood, frozen, as the man scurried off down the alley.

"What in the—" Sherlock gasped from beside him. John glanced over just in time to watch him pluck a red-feathered dart from where it had imbedded in his neck. "Interesting," he murmured.

"Oh my God, Sherlock, are you alright?"

"Don't be silly, John. It should take at least thirty seconds for the toxin in this dart to have any effect on me," Sherlock lectured, before his eyes glazed over and he stumbled into John's side.

"Oh for fuck's sake. It's okay, you're okay," John stammered. He gripped Sherlock's coat and steadied him. "Damnit, a  _blow dart?_   _Really?_ " John shouted at no one in particular, lowering Sherlock to the ground with panic blooming in his chest.

Sherlock, with his legs folded beneath him, sniffed the tip of the dart. His head bobbed. "Smells organic, some sort of plant extract. Causes delirium, mild paralysis, dizziness…hmm…insufficient data to draw a definitive conclusion." He met John's eyes dreamily. "Ohhh, and hallucinations as well."

John ripped his mobile from his pocket, dialing Lestrade as fast as he could.

"Greg!" he yelled when the line picked up. "Sherlock's been shot with a blow dart."

" _A…what?"_

"A bloody blow dart, damnit. Get an ambulance here now. We're on Lisson St, off Bell."

" _Fuck. Be right there."_

"Sherlock, Lestrade's on his way, alright? You're gonna' be fine." John spoke as calmly as he could manage, stuffing his mobile back into his pocket and sitting on the cement beside the detective.

Sherlock smiled at him. His eyes were soft and fond, coloured cyan from the clouded light of the sky. He pressed his palm to John's cheek.

"John John John," he slurred, punctuating each word with a light slap to John's face.

"Sherl—"

"Shhhhh, come here, I have to tell you a secret." Sherlock grabbed his lapel and pulled him so close that cool lips grazed his ear. "Did you know that your face is glowing?"

John blinked.

"You're high, aren't you."

"No, no, of course not."

"Sherlock-"

"' _Tripping'_  yes. Definitely tripping."

"Oh good," John said. "So when Lestrade arrives I should probably tell him not to film you with his phone…again."

"Ick, Lestrade. What a ridiculous man. Wait, wait, come here; I am going to tell you another secret…"

There was a long pause.

"Uh…well?" John prompted.

"Oh! Yes. Lestrade is…just…one of the most honourable people I've ever had the privilege of…wait, that wasn't it."

"Yeah, probably not, since I think that's the only time I've ever even heard you compliment him in the history of our friendship."

"What I probably meant to elucidate is that Lestrade has an uncommonly large penis."

John's eyes nearly bugged out of his skull.

"Come again?" he chirped.

"You can tell by his gait. I've never seen it personally, but he walks as though he has a meat pendulum swinging between his legs."

John sighed the world's weariest sigh and raked his fingers through Sherlock's hair. Sherlock melted into the touch.

"Your penis is still my favourite though," Sherlock slurred.

"You might want to stop talking or  _I_  am going to start bloody filming you."

"John!" Sherlock yipped, scandalized. "Here? But you aren't a  _voyeur_."

"No, Sherlock, that's not what I meant."

"Oh. Because we could if you wanted to."

"Jesus," John groaned.

Sherlock clumsily reached for John's belt buckle.

"Sherlock!"

"What? I know what I'm doing. And don't you dare tell me I don't. I'm a professional; I have an international reputation." He made another grab for John's belt and managed to unbuckle it.

"Knock it off!" John snapped, slapping his hands away. Sherlock pouted.

"This is the worst date I've ever had," he grumbled.

"Sherlock, this isn't a date. You've been hit by a blow dart and you're hallucinating."

"If that's a euphemism, Harold, you know I don't abide them on a Tuesday." Sherlock scolded him with a wobbly, slender finger, before keeling over into John's arms. He nuzzled at the side of John's neck. A sound that was quite similar to a purr rumbled from his throat.

"Erm…do you even know who you are right now? Or who I am, for that matter?

Though John was terrified that whatever was currently poisoning Sherlock's veins might kill him, he couldn't help but be amused.

"Sure I do; I am the very model of a modern major general."

"That's what I thought."

"And you are John Watson, the prettiest lady I have ever seen."

"Wow."

"It would be my honour to escort you to the ball."

"I'll bet it would."

"You smell like tea and wool and lavender and murder."

"Romantic," John snorted. He could hear sirens creeping closer.

"Do tell Mrs. Hudson to stop singing. She sounds like an ambulance."

"That  _is_  an ambulance."

"I wonder who for…?"

"It's for you, Sherlock."

"Is it? I can't imagine why. I feel wonderful. And also terrible." Sherlock scrubbed a hand across his face, and then snuggled closer to John's collar.

"You'd better not be dying on me, Sherlock. I'll kill you if you go dying on me." Though his words carried an edge, John rubbed Sherlock's back, soothing.

"Dying is for plebeians."

"And also mortals who get shot with poison darts."

"Shhh, John, I have to tell you another secret."

"What?" John said on an exhale.

Sherlock brought his face so close to John's that their noses were almost touching. His eyes were clouded but intense. John froze like a rabbit under the scrutiny.

"Did you know that Sherlock Holmes is in love with you?"

There was a long, heavy pause, filled only by the wailing of the ambulance and tires screeching.

Then, as though something triggered in his mind, Sherlock burst into a hysterical fit of giggles. He buried his face in John's shoulder and wrapped his arms and legs around John's torso, pulling himself into his lap. John just stared, dumbfounded.

"John!" Lestrade called as he ran to them with paramedics in toe, choosing the worst possible moment to arrive. "Sherlock, are you alright?"

"Gertrude!" Sherlock bellowed happily, pushing off from John's chest and throwing out his arms in greeting. "How is your enormous penis doing on this fine day?"

Lestrade stumbled, almost falling on top of them before he caught his balance.

"W—what did he say?"

"He's off his face," John clarified, toneless.

"Greedo, listen! Let me tell you a secret."

"No!" John snapped, deep and commanding. He clamped his hand over Sherlock's mouth. "Don't listen to a word he says," he told Lestrade.

"Did…did he just call me 'Greedo'? Like the green guy from Star Wars? There's no way he's seen it…"

"He doesn't know what he's saying."

"I should really be filming this," Greg said, with a light in his eyes that John didn't like in the slightest.

"Don't you dare," he growled.

"Fine, fine. Let's just get him the ambulance before his brain breaks."

Together, they gripped Sherlock's armpits and heaved him off of John's lap and onto his feet. With their arms around Sherlock's back, John tried to take a step forward, but Lestrade paused, holding them back.

"Is there a reason your belt is unbuckled?" he asked John with a smirk and arched eyebrow.

"Shut up or I'll let Sherlock talk about your cock again."

"My  _what?_ "

"Meat pendulum," Sherlock muttered. He swayed into John's side.

"Point taken," Lestrade groaned.

With the paramedic's assistance, they guided Sherlock into the ambulance and onto a stretcher. He lounged back on it like an overfed cat, stretching so that his shirt rode up and exposed the pale jut of his hips.

"Good luck with that one. I'll meet you at the hospital," Lestrade said as he shut the double doors.

After they turned onto the road, John handed over the blow dart and watched as Sherlock's vitals were taken and he was hooked up to the heart monitor.

"You're gonna' be fine, Sherlock," John said, running his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls.

"Can I tell you a secret?"

John sighed, but nodded. He couldn't resist Sherlock at the best of times, let alone when he was drugged in the back of an ambulance.

"I love you more than I love chemistry."

John smiled.

"Yeah?"

"And my violin."

"Wow."

"And bees. And gangrene."

John noticed the paramedics shooting him a quizzical look in his periphery, but he ignored them.

"Also heroin. And Mycroft. And antique medical instruments. Tequila, blood spatter, dancing, cigarettes, puppies, pyjamas, purgatory, pastries, plague—"

"I think you got stuck on the Ps there, Sherl—"

"There's only one thing I love more than I love you."

"Oh, really? And what's that?"

"John Watson."

John shook his head and huffed.

"Well then."

"My apologies. I endeavored to break it to you gently."

"That's quite alright."

"Did you know the paramedics are sleeping together?"

Both paramedics stammered and blushed, suddenly very intent on ignoring the strange things coming out of their patient's mouth.

"I do now."

"Don't tell anyone what I told you about John. Especially not him."

"Why not?" John did his best to keep a straight face.

"He'll get uncomfortable."

"Why would he do that?"

"He doesn't want us to say it. Whenever he starts to he stops himself, or he tells me when he thinks I'm sleeping."

John couldn't help but flush pink at Sherlock seeing through him so completely when he thought he was being discrete. He should have known better.

"John sounds like an idiot," he said bitterly

"Oh, he is. But he's my favourite idiot."

* * *

The following day found Sherlock home and sprawled out on the sofa with a virulent headache. John placed a steaming cup of tea on the coffee table and sat by Sherlock's stomach.

"Have some tea, it will help.

"I'd rather throw myself out the window," Sherlock grumbled, voice gravelly and low. He kept his forearm draped over his eyes.

"Have some bloody tea or I'll throw you myself."

"So aggressive," Sherlock moaned. He peeled his arm from across his face and blinked sluggishly before fixing a glare on John. "Where did your bedside manner fuck off to?"

Sherlock rarely swore, so John knew the pain had to be considerable. He tried a new tactic.

"Please have some tea? For me?"

Sherlock scowled at him for a few more moments, but soon pushed himself up against the armrest and accepted the mug when John handed it to him.

"This is repugnant," he groused.

"The tea?"

"Yes, but no. This whole scenario. I can hardly remember a thing after getting hit with the dart. Do you know how infuriating that is for me, John? For  _me_ , of all people, to have a lapse in memory?"

"Trust me, it's for the best."

Sherlock's eyes glinted and he fixed his sharp focus on John.

"Did Lestrade film me?"

"No, I wouldn't let him."

"You let him film me the last time I was drugged. What factor changed? I said something you didn't want anyone to hear, didn't I. What was it?"

John swallowed hard, averting his eyes before he could cull the instinct.

"What?" Sherlock demanded, wincing when the volume of his own voice aggravated his headache. "John—what?"

"You were very…honest."

"Honest? I'm always honest."

"Um…affectionate."

John watched Sherlock's face drain of colour.

"To whom?"

"Me."

"Oh. I suppose that's preferable to any known alternative," Sherlock said, though he still looked tense and uneasy.

"You, uh…made some rather interesting confessions."

"Oh...I promise I was going to tell you about the gall bladders..."

"It's fi—what?  _What_  gall bladders?"

"The ones I hid in the—oh, that's not what I confessed to."

"What bloody gall bladders?!"

"No particularly memorable ones. Nothing to worry about. Now, what was it I said?"

John glowered at him.

"You told me you're in love with me."

John watched Sherlock's reaction to his words. He hadn't planned on informing Sherlock of his little dart-induced love declarations, but it had been impossible to resist upon discovering that rotting gall bladders were somewhere they really shouldn't be.

Sherlock's eyes had gone wide and blank. His lips were parted, his throat working. "Did I," he said flatly.

"You did. Several times, actually."

"I was drugged."

"So it's not true?" John tried to sound casual but his success was tenuous at best.

"Of course it is," Sherlock snapped. He took a sip from his tea, put it back on the coffee table, and rubbed his temples with a few fingertips.

"So you  _are_  in love with me?" Part of John knew he should probably drop the subject and spare Sherlock (and himself) the torture, but for some reason he pressed on.

Sherlock blew out a deep breath before meeting John's eyes. There was a cold, terrifying half-second of silence before Sherlock gripped the front of his jumper and dragged him in close. John yelped in surprise, but didn't pull away once their mouths were a hairsbreadth apart.

"Don't be an idiot," Sherlock hissed against his lips.

"You told me I'm your  _favourite_  idiot. And that you love me more than chemistry," John teased. He slid his hand up Sherlock's chest to curl around the side of his neck.

"Fortunately I'll never need to choose between the two."

"Also tequila. And the plague."

"You must have swooned."

"Never in my life," John replied, feigning affront. Sherlock shot him a knowing glare but generously didn't bring up John's undignified reaction to their first kiss.

Adjusting until he was lying fully on top of Sherlock, John tangled their legs together. Though Sherlock held his fond gaze for a few calm moments, his brow soon twitched into a frown, as though he realized something unsettling, and he glanced away.

"What?" 

"Did you—when I— I am to deduce from your current demeanor that you-"

"Shhhh, I have to tell you a secret," John interrupted, sealing Sherlock's mouth with his fingers and leaning forward until his lips brushed Sherlock's ear. "This might be surprising, but I love you too." He pulled back and pressed a kiss to the scar at the corner of Sherlock's lips. "More than tea and jumpers and my gun and even tequila. But not as much as I love Sherlock Holmes."

"That's…what?" Sherlock asked, confused, but John noticed the high flush painting his cheeks.

"I'm simply returning the sentiment."

"If that's how I spoke, I'm never getting hit with a blow dart again."

"…But you would have wanted to otherwise?"

"I'd have considered it."

"I shouldn't find that surprising."

"You really shouldn't."

Gently, John kissed Sherlock's cheek, then his temple and the space between his eyebrows.

"My head hurts," Sherlock whined.

"I know, baby."

"We agreed; no pet names."

"It's not a pet name. You're being a baby."

"How cruel, doctor. I thought you said you loved me."

"You must have me confused with someone else."

"No, it was definitely you."

"How can you be sure?"

"Balance of probability," Sherlock declared, wrapping his arms around John's back and holding him tight to his chest. John tucked his head against Sherlock's clavicle, and together they took slow, deep breaths.

"I don't actually love you more than tequila," Sherlock grumbled, half-asleep, after a few moments.

"But do you love me  _less_  than tequila?"

"It's a tie."

"Fair enough."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* I love you more than tequila...but only just.


End file.
